


Show Barn: The Pairings You Never Asked For in the AU You Never Wanted

by orphan_account



Category: crossover - Fandom
Genre: If you like my writing and also extremely referential humor, Multi, This is just something I write when I can't think of anything to write, i guess, is tavington gonna punch hux in the face again, really this is for me and 2 of my friends, this might be for you, yes yes he is absolutely going to do that hing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's 'crack' and there's 'codeine cough syrup and half a bottle of vicodin' and this piece is definitely the latter. A bunch of characters from various fandoms thrown into random situations as a writing exercises, published for the entertainment of me and a couple friends. Anyway this is the show circuit AU you don't want and didn't ask for, Tavington and Hux have matching Samshields and neither one of them will acknowledge it</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In Which a Cashier Makes a Solemn Vow

  


“It's a horse blanket.” The big one set his whole body back and crossed his arms.

“Oh, I don't know, it's a—it's a rather _nice_ horse blanket.” The pretty one set his teeth carefully together, smiled thin-like up at his companion. He wasn't a small man himself, standing about six foot high with square shoulders and sturdy, well-muscled legs.

“At three hundred fifty fucking dollars,” said the big one, “it had better have magical fucking healing powers.”

“Um.” Kaylee cleared her throat, put a hand in front of her mouth. “Uhm, actually?” she said.

The two men turned to face her at the same time, and Kaylee fought the urge to physically crawl into the cubby beneath the display of bedazzled spur straps and browbands.

“Uhm,” Kaylee said, her eyes flickering between the scarred ruin of the big one's face to the acid blue gaze of the pretty one. “Actually, uhm, the Stafford blanket, uh, is, it's rated--”

“Do you sell a—a—hold on,” said the big one, pulling a sheet of paper from the pocket of his Carhart.

“We need a turnout sheet,” said the pretty one. “Size seventy-two, of medium weight.” He smiled. He had short black hair and wore a short black peacoat over his boots and breeches.

“Uhm,” Kaylee said, “The Stafford is, uh, actually our most popular line for people with horses on turnout--”

“The Stafford's three hundred fifty fucking dollars,” said the big one. He was—he was _big_ , like, six and a half feet tall and about as wide as a doorway at the shoulders. One side of his face was a mess of rippling scar tissue that Kaylee didn't like to look at. He had mastered the full-body scowl.

“Uhm,” Kaylee said. “Uh, we have some blankets on consignment downst--”

“There's no seventy-twos downstairs,” said the big one. “What else do you have?”

The pretty one tensed, made a noise in the back of his throat. “May I have a word?” he said to the big one.

The two men disappeared for a moment behind the big rack of helmets and riding breeches that were on sale for the holidays. Kaylee knelt behind the counter and took her phone from her purse in the cubby underneath.

Her boss's phone rang three times before she answered.

“Hey, kiddo!”

“Trisha, there are two men in here fighting over blankets and they're making me really nervous,” Kaylee whispered.

“Huh?”

“These two guys came in about sunset,” Kaylee said. “They're looking for a blanket, and one of them's pitching a fit about the price tag on the Stafford.” She peered up over the counter; though she could see the pretty one's hands flash behind him as he argued, she couldn't see anything else. “They're just _creepy._ I don't know, it's probably nothing--”

“No, hold on—do they talk kind of weird? Sound English?”

“Yeah?” Kaylee licked her lips.

“Does one of them have a big burn scar all down the right side of his face?” said Trisha.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, for fucks--” Something crashed in the background. “Those two are _banned._ They are bannned. Okay. They are banned, and you tell them that they are banned!”

“I can't just tell them--”

“There is a restraining order _on file_ in my office saying William Tavington is not allowed on my property,” said Trisha. “That's his little buddy, who smirks.”

“I'm sorry, Trisha, these guys are really making me nervous, and I can't just--”

“Then just call the cops,” said Kaylee. “I am--”

“I am not fucking having this conversation again!” roared the big man.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” said Trisha. “Go to my office and lock the door. Tell them I'm calling the cops.”

“Okay,” Kaylee said. “Can you stay on the phone with—hold on.”

The harness bells on the tack shop's doors clattered as it slammed.

Kaylee stood up. She looked around the shop.

“Hello?”

“Kaylee?” Trisha said. “Kaylee, are those two assholes still there?”

She walked around the counter, peered down the aisle between the bits and the helmet display. “I think they heard me calling you and left,” she said.

“Good!” Trisha sighed. “Sorry you had to deal with that—look, I need to longe a pony, I gotta go. Call me if you need anything else, though, okay?”

“Okay,” Kaylee said. “Bye!”

“Bye, now,” her boss replied before hanging up.

As Kaylee pocketed her phone, she heard the door jingle open again.

“--a bunch of _fucking children!”_ shouted an unfamiliar male voice.

Kaylee turned around.

A young man with red hair and an intense scowl on his face came storming into the store, pulling his wallet from the pocket of his long black overcoat. He halted in front of Kaylee and stared, not _literally_ steaming with rage but, you know. Pretty close.

“I need the Stafford turnout sheet in a seventy-two, please.” His eyes were very green and his mouth was a very thin line. He looked familiar, now that he was up close. He already had his credit card out.

“Yes, sir,” Kaylee said, forcing a smile onto her face as she hustled over to the stack of blankets to find the one for the man who was apparently babysitting the two assholes who had just left. “Hey, do you ride in GHJA shows at all?”

“Yes,” the redhead replied. “In the high jumpers, actually.”

“I _thought_ I knew you--”

“Fascinating. I need a seventy-two before my dog destroys my car.” His eyebrows sank even further.

“Sorry,” Kaylee muttered, pulling a seventy-two from the shelf and sticking it under her arm.

“Don't apologize,” snapped the redhead. “It's awkard.”

Another _Sorry_ dissolved in the heat of murderous rage trapped behind Kaylee's polite smile. The redhead scowled at her without a word the entire time she rang him up for the blanket.

As he slammed the door shut behind him on the way out, Kaylee raised one middle finger while scowling at the receipt she held clutched in her other hand.

“So you're Bren Hux,” she muttered to the neat signature at the bottom. “I am going to save my money, Bren, and I am going to use it to kick your ginger ass _.”_

  


  


  



	2. Cancel the Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow I went 1300 words and nobody got dicked down by a Rathtar I'm doing gr8 guys

Bren Hux was on the equestrian team at Alabama the first time Will Tavington punched him in the face. One might think, from the way the two of them were chatting amicably while they trotted along the rail side-by-side, that it had been the type of incident where the two young men immediately developed that bizarre, testosterone-fueled brand of mutual respect and understanding and became best friends.

 

That was absolutely not how that night had gone down.

 

James, too, had been riding for Auburn at that show, and he, too, had snuck out with Jaime Lannister to drink in some hole that didn't look too hard at their fake IDs. He really should have stepped in to separate Will from the redhead the moment the two made eye contact.

 

But, after a few seconds of listening to a nineteen year old Bren Hux run his mouth, James was less concerned for the boy's nose and more concerned with having Jaime's car started by the time the cops got called to the resulting fight.

 

“What do you think they're talking about?”

 

James looked up from his disassembled bridle to see Jaime himself, peering out to the jumping ring with his hand held over his eyes and a frown on his face.

 

James shrugged. “The rest of us will find out,” he said. “If it's important.”

 

“They don't just _stop fighting_ because it's not important,” said the blond man. “And if it's important, it's never, uh...”

 

“Good,” James said. “Good is the word you're looking for.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Also, we need to cancel the footing order.”

 

“What?” James almost choked on his own tongue; his bridle fell to the rubber floor as he jolted to his feet. “We just--”

 

“I know, I know, but Kylo says he has to run every purchase over four grand by Mr. Vader, and he says he, uh, hates sand.”

 

James didn't have anything to say to that but, “What?”

 

Jaime held up his hands. “Straight from the manager's office, Norrington, I swear,” he said. “Mr. Vader hates sand. It's coarse, and rough, and irritating, and it gets everywhere.”

 

“...the fuck.” James's mouth hung open for a second. “Oh, Hux is going to be _furious_ \--”

 

“Not if he doesn't find out,” said Jaime.

 

“Not if he—okay, so we're getting _six truckloads_ of _synthetic footing_ in this facility, _by Thursday_ , with the budget that Juggalo prick has given us that he apparently derived from having some kind of fucking _coma séance_ with the barn owne--”

 

“I have a couple of plans,” Jaime said.

 

“You have _plans_.” James felt his stomach sink. “Look, why don't we just tell Hux and get it--”

 

“We can absolutely not tell Hux about this,” said Jaime. “We have a show here in two weeks and a clinic in one, and he is already _perilously_ close to having another meltdown, and now we have to go do business with someone he despises with a passion.”

 

At that, James began the process of flipping through his mental rolodex of people Hux hated, and vice versa. It was a large file.

 

“Okay,” he said after a few seconds. “Who?”

 

“You ever been to this place called the Citad--”

 

“Ohhhh, no.” James slumped back down on his seat, his eyes still locked on Jaime's face. “Ohhhh, no, absolutely not.”

 

The Citadel was a dressage barn in the hills, which, yes, had wonderful sandless footing in all its arenas, which, yes, they did supply to barns across the tri-county area at a _very_ reasonable price. At least, the barns which would still do business with Immy Furiosa.

 

See, the thing with the Citadel was that _everybody_ had lost a valuable student or employee to the lady who owned the place. Just something about her made you want to abandon the people who cared about you and make a lot of expensive bad decisions in rapid succession.

 

James's ex, for example, had left in the middle of the night with one of his favorite horses to go train with her. Hux had lost one of his best grooms the week before medal finals. Clegane's favorite student (who, fair enough, he was flagrantly ogling) had quit jumping entirely to go be a working student at the Citadel. Even the barn's previous owner had been forced to sell to Furiosa when she'd moved all her clients to another barn and left him flailing for business.

 

And Tavington worshiped the ground she walked on, which was a _bad sign._

 

“We can go through that little Stark kid,” said Jaime. “She still adores me and Sandor--”

 

“That is a _monumentally_ bad idea,” said James. “I can almost guarantee she does not adore Clegane, and if she gets the barn owner involved--”

 

“That's why we _do_ need to get Will and Phasma in on the loop,” said Jaime.

 

“Please stop telling me this,” James pleaded.

 

“They won't want Hux to know about it either,” Jaime replied, his voice low. “And I can cover the extra transportation costs, and the arenas will be stripped by wednesday, and we'll have the new footing delivered early thursday morning. And it won't be sand.”

 

“It won't be—is he on cough syrup again, Jaime?” James shook his head, leaned down to pick the pieces of his bridle up off the barn floor. “Last I heard, Mr. Vader was dry-rotting in hospice, dead to the world--”

 

“But I guess he's still fucking with people's business decisions,” Jaime replied with a shrug. “My job is to make the horseys go _boing_ , Norrington. It is not to question Kylo's authority or where he's getting his information.”

 

“Well, I suggest you remember that your _job_ is also to make sure Tavington doesn't get arrested at another horse show--”

 

“But it's _hilarious_!”

 

“Maybe for some,” James replied without returning Jaime's smile. “My father doesn't _have_ a racing barn in Lexington I can crawl back to if all else fails.”

 

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “That's right,” he said. “So I suggest you improve your job security by getting with the program and helping me get this non-sand delivered before our hallowed clinician shows up on Thursday.”


End file.
